by T. Torrest
Avery was sitting on my couch, wearing yet another goddamned miniskirt, her legs crossed casually in spite of her stiff posture. I took a seat in the recliner, trying very hard not to stare at the lengths of exposed skin. We looked at each other then, a not-entirely-comfortable silence filling the space between us.
Avery broke the quiet first. “You look scruffy today.”
“Oh yeah?” I laughed out, giving a rub to the dark stubble along my jaw. “It’s been a couple days since I shaved. Scruff happens.”
“You were scruffy the other day, too. Growing a playoff beard?”
I gave a snort. “Not hardly.”
“So, just the Charlie Salinger, perpetual fuzz thing, then.”
“The what?”
“Party of Five. The oldest brother was always rocking a five o’clock shadow. Do you have to shave at night or something to keep that look going?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never planned it out. I shave whenever I think to do it.”
“And your hair is longer.”
I wondered what the hell was up with her detailed scrutiny and instead offered, “Guess I’m overdue for a cut.”
“No, I… I didn’t mean that. You used to wear it much shorter when… It looks nice, I guess is what I’m trying to say.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
We each took a nip from our drinks, sipping leisurely, as though we both weren’t thinking the same exact thing. Because the last time we were alone together, we weren’t wearing this many clothes.
“Yours is shorter,” I sputtered out, King of Conversation that I am.
“What?”
“Your hair. You cut it.”
She tucked the right side over her ear and said, “Yeah. I thought it would look more professional. I chopped it off months ago and I’m still not used to it.”
“I like it.”
“Thank you.”
“I kinda miss the ponytail, though.”
Avery stopped inspecting the ends of her hair to look at me blankly. “What?”
That made me laugh. “The ponytail. Jesus, Ave. You don’t remember? You always had your hair pulled back in the winter. Because of the static, remember? You always said it looked like you were being electrocuted when you took your hat off.”
She stared at me, open-mouthed. “How do you remember that?”
“I don’t know,” I laughed. “You were always coming out with stuff like that.”
Her eyes dropped as she ran a fingertip along the rim of her glass. “I didn’t think you knew me well enough to determine whether I ‘always’ did anything.”
“I knew you.”
“We hardly ever talked to one another.”
“I’d hardly say ‘hardly,’ Ave.”
“I would.”
I looked at her, stunned. It was pretty emasculating, finding out that she could so easily forget everything that had gone on between us. “How can you say that? You were always around. We hung out a lot back then. We practically considered you as one of the team.”
“One of the guys, you mean.”
“No way. You were way too pretty for any of us to think that.”
She shifted uncomfortably at that, re-crossing her ankles and smoothing the fabric of her skirt over her thighs. I wished she would stop drawing attention to her legs. They were distracting enough as it was.
“There were lots of pretty girls back then, Zac. Lord knows you were aware of each and every one of them.”
What the hell was that? I knew I’d seen my fair share of action back in the day, but just… what the hell was that?
“Was that a dig?”
“It’s the truth.”
I looked at Avery, just sitting there seething at me and shot back, “Well, I don’t remember any complaints when I became ‘aware’ of you.”
Her eyes tightened their focus as her mouth spat out, “Oh, am I supposed to be grateful?”
“Ha! Like you weren’t.”
She raised her brows and huffed, “I think I would have been more appreciative if you didn’t pull a Houdini and disappear two seconds after I gave up the goods!”
Fuck this. She wanted to play? She had no idea who was holding the cards here. “Well, maybe if your father hadn’t shit-canned me, I could’ve stuck around!”
She looked as though she wanted to rip my jugular out of my neck. “What? Are you actually trying to blame me for that?”
I sank back into my chair and tossed a flippant hand in her direction. “Why wouldn’t I? It always seemed a little too conveniently timed that I was handed my walking papers the very day after we... After you and I...”
“You actually think I asked my father to trade you because we...”
“Well, why would I have any reason to believe otherwise?”
Her mouth was dropped open, glaring at me like I was an escaped patient from the mental ward. I felt like one. “That is the most insane thing I have ever heard. You think my father bases his career decisions on my hookups?”
I leaned forward for the kill shot, elbows on my knees, teeth clenched as I answered, “I think your father would do anything to make his precious daughter happy.”
“You’re a narcissist!”
“And you’re full of shit!”
She gaped at me as if I’d just slapped her.
“Fine. I take it back,” she said in a blood-curdling seethe. She stood up and slammed her drink down on the coffee table, the liquid sloshing over the sides of the glass. Her eyes were shooting daggers as her words dripped venom. “You’re not a narcissist, Zac. You’re just an asshole!”
She stomped out the door, slamming it behind her as I got to my feet and yelled, “A drunken handjob is hardly ‘giving up the goods,’ sweetheart!”
Magnum joined the conversation just then, piping in with, “Asshole! You’re just an asshole!”
Tell me something I don’t know.
I slumped back into my recliner as the screaming match played over in my mind. I downed the last of her drink, but it was too effing sweet and I found myself gagging on the mouthful I’d just swallowed. Grabbing the remote in disgust, I turned on the TV.
Fuck the Devils and their stupid, fucking Stanley Cup. I hope they lose. Then I won’t have to see Avery Fucking Brooks ever again.
I looked over at the TV just in time to see the final score.
Ducks – 1. Devils – 0.
For those keeping score at home, that makes two games the home team lost tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
Game Seven of the finals was Saturday night.
The bar was normally pretty busy on the weekends, but tonight, it was completely out of control. We typically only managed to draw this many people whenever there was a big-name band on the schedule.
Or, I guess, a big game.
We were a sports pub year-round, but a hockey bar first and foremost. The fact that our boys were currently starring in the show created an atmosphere of apocalyptic proportions.
Every television set was on and tuned to NBC. Every stool was taken, every inch of floor space was occupied, and every glass was filled.
Just the way I liked it. If the bar did business like this every weekend, I’d have an easier time keeping out of the red.
I suppose our family was luckier than most, in that we actually were able to access the cash necessary to pay my father’s hospital bills. But it wiped out my parents’ small savings, and took almost every penny of the money I’d socked away from my cushy NHL days. At the age of twenty-three, after everything I’d worked for, I was back to Square One.
Now here it was four years later, and I hadn’t yet advanced to Square Two.
Mom was living off Dad’s life insurance, which was normally enough for her since the house had been paid off. But that didn’t mean my brothers and I didn’t slip her an extra bit of pocket money every now and again. They were supplementing her income way more than I was lately, because even though we didn’t really discuss it, everyone knew I d
idn’t have that much to give. Besides, I’d already paid more than my fair share. And because I’d done that, it freed my brothers up to get their lives started. They were all doing pretty well for themselves these days.
Though I guess you wouldn’t be able to tell that from the state they were in tonight.
I looked over to the hightop table where my brothers set up shop hours ago. They wanted the best spot in the house, so Wyatt got here early this afternoon to stake his claim, and had downed about a hundred beers since. Bash met him a couple hours later and Finn didn’t crawl in until a minute before face-off, but it looked as though they’d both made up for lost time. As evidenced by the sentinel of bottles crowding the table, I guessed they’d found a way to catch up to Wyatt.
Bash—we rarely called him Sebastian—was the oldest. He was thirty-six, but don’t tell him I told you that. He liked to think he could still pass as a guy in his twenties, and none of us had the heart to burst his bubble. These days, he was a music teacher at a nearby high school, but back in ‘99, he was hauling lumber down at the docks while he worked on getting his teaching degree. Whenever one of us got pissed at him, “Al Bundy” was our preferred insult, as Bash used to be one hell of a football player back in his teen years, and we all knew he’d go back in time to his glory days if given the chance. It was kind of a jugular shot, though, so we tended to save it for only the most pressing circumstances.
Fact is, he tried to milk every ounce of fame out of his football persona way longer than he should have, and wound up riding it right into the ground. It got embarrassing there for a little while, so I was glad he cut that out finally. And hell, the guy was pushing forty and he was in better shape than the lot of us. I didn’t go out of my way to piss him off too often. There was always the chance I could take him in a fight, but I wasn’t looking to test that theory.
Finn was a decently successful stockbroker out in New York. He liked to think he was a real slick bastard, as evidenced by the fact that his nickname out there in the city was “The Shark.” If you ask me, I think he’s the one that came up with it, but seeing as how he didn’t expect any of us to call him that, I couldn’t give two shits what he went by when he wasn’t here.
Finn had a model-hot girlfriend in New York… and another just-as-gorgeous girl right here in Norman. I didn’t know if they knew about each other and I didn’t want to know. It’s not like I had to see either of them all too often, so I just kept my mouth shut when I did. Chances were, neither of them would be around too long anyway; The Shark had an image to uphold. Case in point: The dude was wearing a suit. On a Saturday. I didn’t know who the hell he was trying to impress, but I couldn’t imagine anyone here was thinking he just came from the office.
Rounding out the honor roll was Wyatt, whom everyone still referred to as “The Riot” even though his wild days were long over. He was making a pretty respectable living as manager of the sports complex one town over. The place was huge, with a full-size turf football field inside and another one outside, too, that doubled as a soccer field. Out back were three baseball diamonds with batting cages, and there was a driving range and mini-golf course adjacent to the domed hockey arena, where Wyatt and I used to spend practically every moment of our free time back in the day.
He’d been working there ever since he was a snot-nosed teenager. He was a hockey player like me, only he never had any intentions of going pro. After my knee healed, he used to badger me about getting back on the ice, but after a while, he just gave up. He knew I wasn’t going back out there.
I knew he found it strange, because our lives had practically revolved around sports. My brothers and I were raised to be athletes, cheering each other on, excelling in our chosen games.
Me and Wyatt were the hockey players, and I didn’t think my brother got his fair share of the credit for being as good as he was, being that I was the one who turned pro and all. I knew he was still playing the town leagues, still sleepwalking out of bed for those three AM ice times, still playing his heart out.
Finn was our baseball player, but he spent more of his energy making time with the ladies than working on his swing. Even still, he was a better-than-passable athlete.
Even Bash, with all his talent, never took his game to the next level. He only did the college football thing for a single semester before dropping off the team. He’d followed some girl out to Michigan when he knocked her up, and that move put an end to his university run. She lost the baby; he lost his scholarship. And man, was my father pissed.
After that, I think all their sports dreams were put onto me, and goddammit if it didn’t kill me that I let them all down.
They’d all worked here at one time or another in their younger years, just like me. Unlike me, however, they’d grown up and moved on. I was essentially still slinging the drinks. Kind of fucked up to realize that the tables had turned. I don’t even know when it happened. I went from being the hero of the family to being its biggest disappointment.
Just to be clear, I didn’t begrudge them their success. They’re my family, so of course I only wanted to see them accomplish great things, like they were already doing. I was actually proud that I was the one who was able to save us all those years ago, that I was able to step up, even if it led to the unenviable financial situation that I was in now. Any one of them would’ve done the same for me if I asked.
I just never asked, is all.
I headed over to their table and had to nudge some empties out of the way in order to deposit the full round of Buds. Rachel was normally pretty good at busing the hightops, but seeing as she had a few shots in her already, she was obviously less concerned with doing her job and more concerned about having a good time. She’d spent most of her night whooping it up with the rowdy group of hockey fans in the corner. On a night like this, I couldn’t very well play the overbearing boss when I had a few drinks in me myself. It was the Stanley Cup finals, for godsakes, and she knew damn well I’d be letting her get away with it tonight.
Sebastian downed the last of his beer and grabbed for one of the new bottles. “To bringing home the motherfucking Cup!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Everyone in the place went nuts, shouting back at him as he raised his beer and downed about half of it. I clinked mine against some nearby drinks then took a swig myself. Goddamn, it felt good to love this game again.
Felix had put together a couple of six-foot subs, and Wyatt had about half of one crammed in his maw when he said, “Holy shit. Can you imagine they actually win? Zac, you gotta get us into that party.”
“Let’s just see what happens, okay? No use talking about next week if we don’t get through tonight.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist,” he said. At least I thought that’s what he said. It was hard to understand him when he was speaking through a mouthful of food.
“I’m not,” I defended. “I’m just being realistic.”
Finn shot a raised eyebrow in my direction. “That is half your problem.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked, shooting him a dirty look in the process.
I caught the silent exchange between Finn and Bash, their eyes meeting in a brief accord. I was waiting for one of them to speak up, but neither one of them did. At least not to explain Finn’s comment.
Bash ran his palms across his forehead, his fingers spiking into his hair. “Holy shit. I think I’m drunk already.”
“I think you’re right, Chris Farley.” Wyatt gestured to Bash’s hair which was sticking straight out from his head.
We were cracking up already, but when Bash broke into “Fat Guy in a Little Coat,” we absolutely lost our shit. Jesus. Growing up in a house with four boys was entertaining enough. But growing up in an Irish house with four boys was like living in a twenty-four-hour comedy club. No wonder my mother’s laugh lines were etched so deep.
Finn pulled out a cigarette, enduring our groans of displeasure. I waved Rachel over to clear the table before my brother could use one
of the empties for an ashtray. She grabbed him a replacement tray and gathered up the bottles, taking three trips before the table could be considered clean. She even delivered a fresh round—which was not her job—but I guess she figured she’d better step up her game before I gave her the ax.
Not that I ever would.
Maybe it wasn’t the best business practice, but when I hired someone, it normally meant that I was stuck with them for life. Felix and Alice came with the place, but my full-time guy Denny and my Sunday guy Scott were my own personal finds. My cocktail waitress Farrah pulled double-duty for me; she worked the restaurant during the week, then served drinks in the bar on the weekends. And Rachel… Actually, I don’t remember hiring Rachel. She was a tattooed-and-pierced little hellraiser who used to come in and drink pretty regularly. One day, she just up and started working here, and I eventually put her on the books.
But every last one of my employees was loyal to me in their own way, and for that, they received my enduring gratitude. I watched how my father handled his workers for all those years, and I guess I picked up a thing or two. The most essential of which was to always let your employees know how much you valued their contribution to your business. “I couldn’t do this without you” went a long way, and more importantly, it was the truth. And when a person felt appreciated, they went above and beyond to try and please you, to pay that respect back. If they felt they were part of a team, then they had a vested interest in seeing that team win. That mentality held true whether the employee in question was a high-level executive at some Fortune 500 office building… or a degenerate working some two-bit bar.
I swear, this place was like The Island of Misfit Toys. My employees were a mixed breed, to say the least.
I couldn’t have put together a better crew if I tried.
Chapter Fourteen
I woke up with a killer hangover, the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in many, many months. My drinking the night before was three parts celebration and one part drowning my sorrows. In either case, it was hard not to join in with such an elated crowd last night.